Chapter Twenty-Nine

Alfie

Glenfiddich can only work so many miracles. I discovered last night that it cannot act as a reliable sleeping potion. It can, however, provide a more than adequate hangover when imbibed in sufficient quantities.

For the first time in months, I awaken to an empty bed. I was never complacent about Steph’s presence. Every morning, I was silently thankful to whoever was responsible for Stephanie coming into my life.

Not only didn’t I take her for granted, but I also showed her how important she was to me. I cooked for her, gave her compliments and told her I cared, lavished her with presents—as much as she’d allow—spent all my time with her, and touched her with affection.

Now that I think about it, those are the five love languages in a nutshell. I gave them all, willingly and without fail.

I can’t blame her, though. My relationship history, or lack thereof, would scare any woman away.

Although I lie in bed for another hour, nothing short of a miracle could ease me back to sleep. I heave myself out of bed, take a shower, and then stand in the closet for the longest time, completely baffled as to what to pack. Steph promised to help me pack this morning.

“You’re not an infant, Alfie. You’re a grown male, capable of packing a damn suitcase without assistance.”

We’re going to be gone for seven days, so I pick my fourteen favorite tees. Spillage happens. Better safe than sorry.

The band ordered what they wanted off my online catalog. Those were shipped separately to our hotel in Ysaria. I doubt any of them are dithering about what to pack. Did the breakup turn my brain to mush, or was it the scotch?

I stuff some of my favorite jeans into the suitcase, throw in some sundries, and shrug, figuring that if I forgot something important, I can buy it when I arrive.

Realizing I’m still naked, I decide a moment in the sun in my backyard might improve my shitty attitude, but after half an hour of sunning myself, with no improvement in mood, I stomp back inside. How can I walk naked back there now without thinking of Steph?

The kitchen reminds me of her, as does the coffeemaker and the damned dining room table, which is where I last saw her.

No. That’s not true. The last glance I had of her was when she was halfway out my front door and turned to give me one last look. The image of the pain and hurt on her face is now burned into my retinas. I can’t unsee the effects of destroying someone’s life.

It hits me like a hammer over the head that two people’s lives have been decimated. How, exactly, am I going to make it to six p.m.? Although I can’t fathom that, the bigger question is how I’ll manage the week on tour, squeezed into cars, planes, and buses, the banquet with the Potentate, and all the hours in between.

This is going to be hell.